


Devil's and Blacksheep

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Partners in Crime, Pirates, Sterek + Black Sails + POTC, Sterek Week 2017, sterekpartners
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 16:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12561580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: Stiles wakes to the scent of smoke on the wind, and the cold bite of steel at his throat.





	Devil's and Blacksheep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [userdylanobrien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/userdylanobrien/gifts).



> For Sterek Week 2017, Day 6: Partners in Crime
> 
> This fic is a dash of Black Sails and a smidgen of POTC, and was inspired by [THIS](http://hale-dereks.tumblr.com/tagged/pirate%20au) lovely gifset made by the talented [Hale-Dereks](http://hale-dereks.tumblr.com/)

Stiles wakes to the scent of smoke on the wind, and the cold bite of steel at his throat. 

He doesn’t dare open his eyes. 

“No use pretending,” a gritty voice whisperes above him. “I can hear your heartbeat, and I can smell your fear.” 

There is a warm, heavy weight holding him down at the hip, and when he cracks open his eyelids, he is greeted by a wicked smile in the candlelight that is all edges, and no curves. 

“I was wondering when the screams would wake you,” the dark haired man, the _pirate_ , addresses him from where he is seated on Stiles’ groin. “How like an aristocrat’s son to sleep through his town burning down around him. You pieces of shit never care about the common folk.”

And now that the pirate mentions it, how _did_ Stiles sleep through all the noise outside his open window? It’s chaos. Not only are there howling screams, but there is the echoing clash of metal, the buckle of burning wood, and primal, almost animalistic growls coming from the cobblestone streets below his bedroom. The cacophony is so deafening, it drowns out the never ending noise of the waves beating against the wharf. Stiles’ brain catalogs the sounds, and what they mean for Nassau, and then finally focuses on the pirate’s words.

He parts his lips and swallows tentatively against the sharp pressure at his jugular. “Wait… what?” he inquires, stupidly. He can’t think straight with all this racket and the weight of the ridiculously attractive ruffian on top of him. The smooth, deep cut of the man’s bicep in the flickering shadows is titillating, distracting Stiles’ already hyperactive mind. 

The tip of the dagger presses harder into his skin. “Give me the page, boy, and your blood need not be shed tonight.” The rogue reaches behind him and pulls out a small leather-bound book, a captain's log, and throws it on the pillow next to Stiles’ head. His well-shaped mouth thins in anger.

Stiles pretends this scruffy pirate might as well be speaking another language. “What page?” he asks innocently, voice steady and not at all in line with his thudding heart. 

“The damn page from your father’s ship log!” the pirate roars, and in his anger, the knife slips, just a little, and the point slices into the thin skin of Stiles’ throat like silk. He can feel the warm blood trickle down his neck and seep onto his bed sheet.

The painful prick of the blade and the hot blood on his skin awaken an answering rage inside Stiles. “My father is fucking dead, you filthy scum! He has been for five years. Died at sea with my mother. I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about!” The rant leaves him breathless and flushed.

The pirate looks momentarily confused as he takes in the scowl twisting Stiles’ lips. In the ensuing silence of Stiles’ unexpected outburst, there is a loud thud from downstairs, then the sound of a door splintering. The pirate pulls the knife away from the small wound, but he stays atop Stiles.

“This is Commodore McCall’s home,” he tells Stiles, as if speaking to a small child or a madman. “You are his son.”

“Derek!” a man screams from the street outside Stiles’ window. “Hurry the fuck up! Get it and let’s go!” _Derek?_ Could this attractive and youthful pillager be _Derek Hale_ , the notorious pirate captain of the _Black Wolf_? Stiles’ mind starts to stir with half-formed strategies. 

Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek. “I am _not_ his child,” he spits. “Scott is his heir. I am his ward, and my name is Stiles Stilinski.” Stiles struggles to dismount Derek, to no avail. “ _Fuck_ Commodore McCall. Steal all the silver in his safe, for all I care. The bastard deserves it for how he treats his wife and son, and for how he treats me.”

“ _You_ are his son,” Derek insists, pigheaded. “We’ve been observing you and the other boy for weeks. My first mate watched you and told me this was the son’s bedroom window.”

“Derek!” the man below cries out again. 

“Sounds like you need a new first mate, Captain Hale,” Stiles says, meanly, and Derek growls low in his chest. “Perhaps you need a partner that is a bit smarter. Scott’s bedroom is two windows off to the West. You’re robbing the wrong person. You may be the worst pirate I’ve ever seen. The stories of your prowess have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Damn Isaac to hell,” Derek curses. 

There is another thump in the foyer, and the clang of swords rings out as the Commodore's menservants attack the intruders. Stiles sends up a silent prayer that this first mate of Derek’s is so sub-par. “Scott and I have grown up as close as brothers, but the Commodore sees me as nothing more than a leech on his family. An education is all he’s given me.” Stiles motions magnanimously at the spartan walls of his room. That is when he notices the desk chair placed under his door handle. How did this man manage to lock them in together, yet not rouse Stiles from sleep? “He certainly hasn’t given me a page in any silly book.” He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his heart. 

Derek rocks back on his hips, to better see Stiles’ face in the dim light, and the motion sparks like gunpowder up Stiles’ spine. His body is having a very inappropriate reaction to the danger that is rapidly mounting around him. Stiles tries valiantly not to buck up into the pressure. He’s known for quite some time that his attraction to men and women is equal, but this is unhinged. Is he some kind of masochist? 

The pirate is watching his face closely. “You lie,” he says, cocking his head to the side in a gesture that reminds Stiles of the stray dog Scott used to feed when they were children. Stiles’ heart lurches, one too-strong beat. 

“I’m not lying,” he says, and wills the frantic flutter in his chest to slow. “He hasn’t given me any page.”

Derek’s smile is sharper than the blade clenched in his meaty fist. “No, he didn’t. You _took_ it.” 

That isn't exactly true either, but Stiles isn’t about to argue the finer points of theft with a pirate. The truth is he _used_ to have it. He’d memorize the page, which contained the sailing schedule of a Spanish galleon called the _Urca de Lima_ , then burned the schedule at his hearth the night prior.

“What’s a boy like you planning to do with the schedule for a warship?” Derek queries with a lustful sneer, sounding genuinely curious about the answer. 

“I’m a _man_ ,” Stiles retorts, “and I want freedom. What do you want with the page?” Stiles brazenly asks Derek. “If it’s treasure you’re after, I hear the gold aboard that ship is cursed by the Natives in the Americas. Perhaps your first mate wasn’t privy to _that_ information either. Choose some other fleet to attack. Treasure ships are abundant in these waters.”

Derek grabs him around the throat with his free hand, thumb pressing into his trachea. Stiles’ airway cuts off with a harsh, wet sound. “This is not a game to me or my crew, boy. If you won’t give me the schedule, we can pay a midnight visit to your _brother_ , Scott. Perhaps if I cut off a few of his fingers, you’d be more willing to tell me where you’ve hidden the schedule.” The knife slashes in front of Stiles’ eyes.

Derek is off him in a flash, too quick for Stiles to see, pulling Stiles roughly to the edge of his mattress. He chokes on air as it burns its way back into his lungs, the taste of blood coppery and thick on his tongue. Derek flips him with inhuman strength so he is face down, hands held tightly behind his back at a painful angle. The blade is back, stinging where it presses into his knuckles this time. “Shall we go pay Scott a visit?” Derek rasps.

“Fuck you,” Stiles hollers, but it’s muffled by a mouthful of bed sheet. 

“Ah, yes,” Derek chuckles, a throaty rumble. There is another bang from below, the sound of glass shattering, and pounding footsteps on the staircase. Derek knocks Stiles’ legs apart with his knees, and molds his overheated body to Stiles’ back. He feels hot as a warming pan, fresh from the fire. He leans close, rum-soaked breath ghosting over the back of Stiles’ neck. His flesh goes to goosebumps as Derek’s beard leaves stinging prickles on his nape. Derek’s lips caress his ear when he says, “I can smell _that_ , too.”

Stiles sucks in a ragged breath. “If only there were enough time,” Derek whispers in a mockingly sweet tone. He holds Stiles’ wrists in one hand, and trails the other down his side to his hip, pawing at the hem of Stiles’ sleep shirt until it is up to the middle of his back, baring his ass. Derek grinds his hips into Stiles’ backside. The rough material of his pants burns deliciously as Derek rubs his stiff dick against the tender, sensitive skin.

Stiles can not stop the moan that escapes his mouth.

“Tell me where you've hidden the schedule, Stiles,” Derek all but purrs, and his name in this marauder’s mouth is downright obscene. “Tell me, and I won’t have to rip out your friend’s throat.” He snaps his teeth, then places them gently on the rim of Stiles’ ear.

“I don’t have the page,” Stiles tells him once again, but before Derek can pull away fully, Stiles divulges the whole truth. “I have it here.” He bangs his head into the mattress, feeling like an idiot. “I’ve memorized it. All that’s left is ashes on my hearth and what’s inside my head. If you harm Scott, or if you harm me, you’ll never have your precious schedule.”

He flips Stiles around once more in a dizzying show of strength. On his back again, arms now trapped behind him, Stiles’ legs wrap around Derek’s hips reflexively, holding on like a lifeline in a violent sea. Derek’s eyes flash bright blue in the dark as they take in the hard cock tenting Stiles’ sleepshirt.

Stiles whimpers, half fear and half excitement. “What the hell are you?”

Derek smiles again, but this time the teeth descending from his gums are razor sharp fangs. “Devil’s and black sheep, all of us,” he tells Stiles. “My crew and I need the gold aboard the _Urca de Lima_ to break our curse.” He rolls his hips sinuously into Stiles. “So, if I need you in order to hunt down the warship, it seems you’ll be granted your wish for freedom, Stiles. There is nothing more freeing than a life at sea.”

Stiles can barely believe this pirate is playing right into his hastily made plans. For years he’s been dreaming of leaving this damned pile of sand and the vile Commodore McCall behind, and now Captain Derek Hale is going to unknowingly whisk him away from his dismal future. Stiles tries valiantly to fight back a smile of triumph. 

“You will take both Scott and I into your crew,” Stiles commands, sanctimonious, cocking his chin at a haughty angle. “I won’t leave here without him.”

Derek smirks, and tosses the blade to the floor. He reaches for the oil lamp standing on the wooden bedside table, and spills some of the slick onto the fingers of his right hand. “You’re making an awful lot of demands for a prisoner.”

Stiles scoffs, never taking his eyes off Derek’s long, beautifully shaped hands. “Prisoner?” The word is panted out of his mouth. “I think you’d be wise to make me your _partner_. After all, your current first mate can’t even figure out who Commodore McCall’s true son is. I’d never be so thickheaded.” 

Derek pushes the nightshirt up to Stiles’ chin, exposing him to the cool night air blowing through his curtains. His nipples pebble against the chill. Derek reaches forward and closes his fingers around one nipple, pinching. “What will you give me if I honor your ultimatums?” Derek asks, ghosting the wet fingers of his free hand down behind Stiles’ balls and into the cleft of his ass.

Stiles’ pulse bumps higher in his throat, and his lips part on a sigh. He’s being driven mad with desire, canting his hips, wiggling his arms out from underneath him and trying to rub his hard cock against Derek’s breeches. “I’ll warm your bed every night,” Stiles offers, breathless, a touch of red blooming on his sun-kissed cheeks. “I hear it can be cold and lonely out on the water.”

Derek let's loose a malicious staccato laugh as he presses a slick finger to Stiles’ hole. “Tempting,” he replies, as he buries his finger inside to the first knuckle. Stiles groans and arches his back, feeling as splayed open as a cadaver under the insistent press. For a blissful moment, there is pressure against the sweet spot inside Stiles, and a drop of precum wells at the tip of Stiles’ cock. “ _Very_ tempting.”

Outside his bedroom door there is frantic shouting, and the rhythms of violence and death drift up from the street below. It seems fittingly poetic that Nassau is being destroyed while Stiles is remade in this hazel-eyed devil’s arms.

Derek quickly adds an additional finger, scissors them roughly, preparing Stiles only enough to ease the way for Derek’s blunt, hard dick. Derek opens his rough-spun breeches and pulls his member loose. Stiles focuses on the squelching sounds of oil and skin as Derek coats his own cock, drowning out the sounds of ruination and mayhem below.

Then Derek’s wet cock rubs against him, spreading more slick before pushing forward in an unrelenting press, popping inside suddenly. Stiles gasps and digs his fingers into the bed sheets. 

Desire morphs Derek’s eyes from hazel to murky black as he slides forward, burying himself to the hilt inside Stiles. Stiles cries out, a liquid sound of desire, pushing his hips forward to meet Derek’s merciless thrusts, squirming his already-wide thighs farther apart and winding an arm around Derek’s broad shoulders. Sweat soaks the sheets from both their bodies. This savage claiming is nothing like he has ever fantasized, but oddly satisfying; like his whole life up until this night has been a series of shallow, careful inhales, and Derek has loosed a cincture from around his heart. He can finally breathe deeply. 

“If you’re to join my crew and be my partner,” Derek murmurs, “you’ll be branded a criminal. A _monster_. You’ll never be able to return to your life here.”

The pirate leans forward then, to steal a kiss from Stiles’ bitten-red lips. It is soft and sensual, his mouth hungry and tasting of liquor, but curtailed with just enough reserve to make the kiss a promise, rather than a demand. Stiles’ wastes no time opening his mouth as he has opened his legs, his and Derek’s tongues clashing like the swordsmen in the hall. 

Derek moves to pulls back from the embrace, but Stiles follows, surging up and pulling himself closer to Derek, closing his teeth over the rapid beat in his neck. He bites Derek’s throat again, hard enough to leave a mark that seems to quickly fade in the dim light. 

“What say you?” Derek asks.

Stiles knots his hands in Derek’s silky black hair and whispers hotly in his ear, barely recognizing his own voice, thick with demand and desire. “ _Harder._ ”

Derek throws his head back and laughs, pure as bells. He hooks one arm behind Stiles’ knee, and sheaths himself in Stiles’ body over and over, desperate to oblige. 

A sensation of rightness overwhelms him, carried on the wave of climax that is beginning to crest at the base of his spine. He has spent far, far too long playing to the whims of the Commodore. Recklessly allowing Derek to _mark_ him inside and out, to dirty him up in this borrowed bed, breaks down a social barrier Stiles will never recover from. Now, he is well and truly free. 

Derek’s voice breaks on a high, sharp cry as he shoves forward, raking Stiles across the bed sheets, ramming against that spot within him that brings violent spasms of heat spilling from his body. Stiles’ bites Derek’s shoulder, rolling against him with a sated sob. Derek slams into him once more, then stills with a helpless shudder. 

Derek pulls out, stuffing himself back into his breeches and pulling Stiles to his feet. The swift change in gravity makes hot seed leak out of Stiles, trailing down his thighs and onto the oriental rug beneath his bare toes. Derek retreats to the corner of the room, and quickly returns with Stiles’ linen pants. 

He thrusts them into Stiles’ chest. “Well?” Derek asks. “Are you coming or what?”

Stiles dresses as fast as he can. “Yes,” he tells Derek, hopping behind the pirate as he heads toward the bedroom window. “But.. but we need to get Scott.”

Derek pokes his head out the window, yelling to the man still stationed below. “Isaac! Get ready to catch!”

He turns back to Stiles with a predators smile. “Two windows to the West, you said?” 

Stiles nods. “We can get into his room if we shimmy along the windowsill. I’ve done it countless times since I was a boy.”

Derek grabs Stiles by the collar of his shirt and pulls him to the window ledge. “I’d rather not take the chance of you slipping and splitting your skull open, when so much rides on what’s inside that pretty head. _I’ll_ get Scott.”

Stiles starts to pull back, to argue, but then he sees Derek’s face clearly in the white light of the moon. “Trust me,” Derek says, and amazingly, Stiles _does_. “We’ll be right behind you.”

And with that, he slaps his broad palm across Stiles’ ass, and heaves him out the window.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm [Jamie](http://jmeelee.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The title for this fic comes from "Yo Ho, Yo Ho a Pirates life for me" from POTC.


End file.
